


Not Safe For Work

by filthy_rat



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Texting, Embedded Images, F/M, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 16:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14815208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthy_rat/pseuds/filthy_rat
Summary: It's been a year and a half since Team Skull was actually a thing, and ex-boss Guzma is trying his best to be a better person. He's gotten a job at the local Pokecenter cafe, catering to demanding customers day in and day out to pay the rent on a crappy trailer he shares with his golisopod. He meets Crysta a few months after Team Skull disbands, and the two become fast friends. When he leaves his hoodie, the only thing he's kept from those days, at her apartment during a party, she decides to keep it... Just for a little bit.





	Not Safe For Work

Guzma stares down at the colorful flyer in his hands, and looks back up at the building across the street. Yep, this is the correct address. It took him an hour-long ferry ride and a twenty minute walk to get here, and now he’s having second thoughts. He’s not much of a “party person”, really. Crowds of people and loud music tend to be irritating more than anything else, and he’s not known for having a long fuse.

So why did he decide to come to _this_ party? Which, if the sound coming from within the building is any indication, is going to be a real rager. Well, simply put, he’s _lonely_. Even the most introverted of people need a little socialization sometimes, right? Ever since the whole unpleasantness with Team Skull a year and a half ago, he’s been distant with most of the Alolan residents. Hau and his irritating grandfather still like to “check in” but almost everyone has left him alone. It’s a mutual agreement -- they quietly tolerate his presence among the workforce, and he silently resents every single one of them. Win-win.

Until _she_ entered the picture.

With Crysta it’s different. She never seems to care about the things he did, and when she looks at him, she sees _him._ Not his past, not his mistakes. When she looks into his eyes and smiles, it’s genuine. They’ve known each other a few months now, and she’s one of the few that’s gotten past his prickly exterior. The two of them are good friends now.

Okay, so _maybe_ he has a little bit of a crush. She certainly doesn’t reciprocate, and why the fuck would she? He’s some gross ex-thug who barely showers and she’s… _well._ Just imagining the way she smiles and laughs and… With a shake of his head, Guzma quickly ends that train of thought before it gets out of hand. How long has he been standing here navel-gazing? He stuffs the flyer into his pocket, and hurries across the street to her building.

The deep bass of the music inside reaches him minutes before he actually gets to her door. The hallways are a nightmare to navigate. Stragglers from the party litter almost every conceivable space. After the first four times, Guzma gets tired of asking politely, and just starts pushing his way through the crowd. After some struggling, he makes it to her door. It stands wide open, and beyond the threshold lies the source of the bass.

Glancing from side to side, Guzma hesitantly steps into the apartment and peers through the sea of bodies for a recognizable face. He’s on the lookout for her, and yet, somehow she manages to sneak up on him.

“GUZMA!” shouts Crysta, materializing out of thin air somewhere to his left. He nearly jumps out of his skin in shock. “You made it! I was worried you weren't comin’!” She flashes him that exuberant grin and he feels his knees go suddenly weak. He manages a nervous grin, and scratches at his undercut.

“Yeah well, I had to make sure it lived up to the hype, yanno. Ya ass was braggin’ about this shindig for weeks.”

Crysta laughs. “C’mon, let’s get you a drink.” Without waiting for him to respond, she grabs his large hand in hers, and pulls him towards the kitchen. Expertly, she guides him through the maze of other guests, and he allows himself to be led. Even though he’s trying his hardest not to dwell on it, his eyes keeps flicking to their connected hands. Shit, but she’s got him turning into some kind of lovesick rockruff pup.

The kitchen is much quieter, but no less crowded. Party guests sit in small clusters, talking and snacking and drinking. How the hell does she even _know_ this many people? Crysta forges a path through the partiers and Guzma trails faithfully behind her. When she drops his hand to open her fridge, he secretly mourns the loss of contact.

“So what’s your poison? Beer? Rum? I got some vodka here somewhere I think,” she says, rearranging items on the shelves to find what she’s seeking.

“Beer’s fine with me, I ain’t picky.”

Grinning triumphantly, she produces two beers, and pops the top on his before handing it to him. They clink their bottles together gently, an unspoken toast to the party gods shared between them, before taking a sip. Somewhere else in the apartment, the song changes, and a wordless cry of appreciation rises from the crowd. Stationary guests immediately begin dancing, and the noise rises to ‘your neighbors are calling the cops’ level.

Crysta is saying something to him now, but with the cacophony of noise all around them, he can only pick up snatches of words. He asks — well, shouts at, really — her to repeat herself, leaning in closer until her lips are practically touching his ear, but he still can’t make out what she’s trying to say. Helplessly, he gestures to his ear, shrugs, and shakes his head.

Her hand finds itself into his again, and again, his heart lurches painfully into his throat as her fingers close around his. They leave the kitchen, and Crysta leads him to her balcony. It’s surprisingly devoid of people, which is a relief. When the sliding glass door closes behind them, the music inside is muffled and now they can hear one another.

Guzma sits heavily upon the outdoor loveseat, and takes another swig of his beer. With a sigh, Crysta sinks into the nearby lounge chair, her one free hand pillowing her head as she stretches. Guzma fiddles with his drink, twisting the bottle this way and that between his fingers, to give his eyes something else to look at and his hands something to do.

“I was _tryin’_ to ask how you’ve been.”

“Oh, yeah…” He scratches at his undercut, averting his gaze. “Yeah, it’s been fine, I guess. I mean, it fuckin’ sucks wakin’ up so early, but.” He shrugs. “It pays better than nothin’.”

She nods and takes a contemplative sip of her beer while her gaze wanders out to the city skyline sprawling along the horizon. There’s a moment of comfortable silence as they enjoy their beers and the momentary reprieve from the energy of the party inside. It’s nice, spending time with her like this, getting to see her in her natural state, as it were. She twirls a strand of blonde hair around her finger and he finds himself transfixed by the motion.

“Oooh hey!” Crysta sits up quickly, spilling some beer from the bottle in her sudden excitement. “I almost forgot.” She scurries over to sit beside him, placing her beer carefully on the glass-top coffee table in front of the loveseat. From the pocket of her cutoff jean shorts, she produces a hand-rolled cigarette and grins. “I saved this one for you.”

“For me?” Guzma grins. “Shit, that was nice of ya.” He tries very hard to not think about her thigh pressing against his, but the warmth of it has his pulse spiking.

“Couldn’t party with my bestie while he’s sober, could I?” Gently, she nudges him with her elbow, and gives him a wink.

A bark of laughter escapes him and he sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ya bestie, huh?” He shoots her a lopsided grin and scratches again at his undercut. “That’s real flatterin’ n’ all, but uh… shouldn’t ya bestie be like… I dunno, a girl?”

Crysta shoots him a derisive scowl and lights the joint. She holds it between two fingers as she inhales, then offers the lit cigarette to him as she exhales a plume of pungent smoke. Guzma plucks the roach from her fingertips and takes a long, deep drag from it. The weed’s top quality, just like the company.

“Nah, I like you.” She picks up her beer and settles back against the loveseat cushions. “You’re pretty chill. Which is crazy, ‘cause I heard you got some serious anger issues.”

He stiffens. Always comes back to that, doesn’t it? “Yeah, well.” Suddenly the frayed bits of his jeans are very interesting, and he fiddles with them, jaw muscle jumping. “I was a stupid shithead.” The joint is passed back to her, and for lack of anything to do, Guzma takes another swig of his beer without meeting her gaze.

“Hey.” Mindful of the lit joint, Crysta drapes herself across his back, her chin resting on his shoulder and her free arm curling around his middle. “You know I’m just messin’ around, right?”

“Yeah.” Guzma’s heart pounds faster at her proximity and he prays she doesn’t notice.

“I don’t care if you get mad at shit.”

“I know.”

“...I think you’re kinda cute.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“What? Pff, I didn’t say nothin’. Weed got to you quick, dude.” With a giggle, she pushes away from him, and settles back on the loveseat cushions.

The fuck kind of game is she playing? Guzma’s face goes hot and he resumes fiddling with the frayed edges of his ripped jeans. Crysta doesn’t speak again for a few minutes, and the comfortable quiet is quickly becoming _uncomfortable._ His beer is hurriedly polished off as the silence stretches on between them. The weed is doing its job, though, and fast. Before long, the awkwardness is forgotten and inhibitions are taking a nosedive. Confidence surges through him, like hot air lifting a weather balloon to impossible heights. He sits up straight, and plucks the joint from her lips.

“Hey, what the fuck!” exclaims Crysta indignantly.

“Relax. There ain’t much left, so why don’t we share it?”

“Uh… I thought that’s what we were doing?”

“Let’s shotgun it.” A wicked grin curves Guzma’s lip, and he arches a playful brow, silently egging her on. Success! A deep blush crawls across her cheeks, but the expression on her face is nothing short of determined. Stubborn little shit isn’t she? Never one to back down from a dare. She sits up straighter, and looks him dead in the eye.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

“C’mere, then.”

Crysta scoots a little closer and the distance between the two of them shrinks faster than an ice cube in summer. The angle is awkward for both of them, and after some minor adjustments, they’re comfortable and yet uncomfortable at the same time. She’s so close, Guzma can count all the freckles dusting her cheeks if he wants to. With only mere inches separating their faces, he _could_ kiss her. Damn, how he wants to. But instead, he lifts the mostly-spent cigarette to his lips and takes a drag. When he exhales, the smoke curls around them slow and creeping. Her eyelids flutter closed as she inhales deep.

“One more, one more,” urges Guzma with a grin.

Another drag. Another exhale. Another inhale. The roach is spent now, but they don’t separate. Her hands rest limp and warm on his knees, and her fingertips toy idly with those frayed edges on his jeans. Her eyes keep flicking down to his mouth. Oh, he definitely sees her licking her lips. The weed’s emboldened him now, made him reckless. He reaches up and brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His thumb lingers a bit too long on the curve of her cheek, and he slowly leans in --

**_CRASH._ **

From somewhere within the apartment, the sound of smashing glass jerks them apart. As they’re both trying to figure out what happened, Crysta’s slowpoke, Bruno, slaps against the sliding glass door. Frantically, the little pink blob paws at the door, as several drunken party goers attempt to yank him by his tail. Clearly, Bruno is having none of whatever it is they’re doing.

“HEY!” shrieks Crysta in outrage, jumping to her feet. “Leave him _alone!_ ” She moves towards the door to open it, but Guzma gets there first.

In two strides he reaches the door, yanks it open, and bends down to scoop up the terrified slowpoke in his arms. It wriggles, frantic, desperately trying to escape its captor. There are audible groans of disappointment as Guzma carefully transfers Bruno into Crysta’s waiting arms. One of the harassers speaks up.

“Ooooh, big bad Guzma came to the party, guys, better look out.” A derisive cackle escapes the guy, and he high fives one of his moronic buddies. “Ay, man, didn’t you used to _steal_ people’s pokemon? Now what, you’re some kinda goddamn pokemon protector? That’s a fuckin’ laugh.”

“Yeah, well.” A grin curls his lip, but it lacks any warmth or humor. The rage is bubbling just below the surface. “People also said I was a murderer ‘n shit, too. Can’t believe everythin’ ya hear, dumbass.”

“Tch, whatever, bruh. You’re just a fuckin’ thug. I ain’t scared of you.”

Now this guy is invading his personal space, and Guzma’s hand curls into a white-knuckled fist at his side. He takes a deep, steadying breath through clenched teeth, but his patience is wearing thin. The grin is tighter now, almost glued in place. Again, he _tries_ to be amiable.

“Look, man, I got a good high goin’ here and I ain’t about to waste it on ya sorry ass. So just get outta my face before somethin’ bad happens to ya.”

The harasser shoves Guzma’s shoulder, _hard._ He stumbles back a few steps from the force of the shove but catches himself before he trips over the lounge chair. This is the last straw. Slowly, he retraces his steps back, and draws himself up to his full height to tower over this asshole. A low, mirthless chuckle escapes him.

“Crysta, you know this fucker?”

“I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Without another word or further warning, Guzma decks the guy right in the jaw. A collective groan rises from all the onlookers, and the guy reels back, clutching his face with both hands. A string of creative expletives fall from his mouth. His two friends grab him by the shoulders and guide him from the balcony, and the sliding glass door shuts behind them with a snap.

“...Sorry.” Guzma shakes the hand he’d punched the guy with, and flexes his fingers. It’s been awhile.

“For what?”

“I went and lost my fuckin’ temper again...” Slowly, he sinks down onto the loveseat, nursing his sore hand and mentally kicking himself. Now he can’t bear to look at her.

“He was being a dickhead, Guzma. You were totally in the right. Bruno’s very grateful.” She sits beside him. The aforementioned slowpoke still trembles in her arms, its face buried in the crook of her elbow. She leans closer and presses a soft kiss to Guzma’s cheek. “And so am I. Thank you.”

Oh, damn. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Guzma’s heart lurches into his throat when she smiles. He gives her an understanding nod, and looks away.

“I better go take care of this before that guy calls the cops,” she says with a sigh. Gently, she shifts Bruno in her lap, but the slowpoke is curled so tightly in a ball she can barely move him. “Can you hold Bruno? He’s still kinda traumatized.”

“Oh, uh. Yeah, sure. Sensitive lil guy, ain’t he?” He gently pulls the shivering slowpoke into his lap and pats its smooth head in what he hopes is a soothing way. With a frightened chitter, it burrows into his open jacket and doesn’t move. Guzma snorts out a bemused chuckle.

“Yeah, he’s a mama’s boy.” Crysta smiles and fishes her phone from her pocket. She types in the unlock code and hands it to Guzma. “Here, gimme your number.”

“...Why?”

“Because I don’t have it yet? Dumbass.” Crysta gives him a wink, and slips back into her apartment.

Taking a deep breath, Guzma shrugs out of his jacket, wraps it around the quivering slowpoke, and settles the entire bundle on the loveseat next to him. Bruno wriggles momentarily, burrowing deeper into the folds of the hoodie, and falls still. Guzma turns his attention back to the phone. With nervous energy forcing his leg to bounce unendingly, he makes a new contact and begins filling in his information. He labels himself as “Big G” and even provides a peace-sign, tongue-out selfie for the contact info.

Should he maybe do a little digging through her phone? The temptation is strong, almost too strong, to search through her photos to see if she’s taken any nudes. Maybe just a quick peek…?

No. No, that’s something skeezy, _Team Skull_ Guzma would do, and he’s trying to turn over a new leaf. Clearing his throat, he places her phone face-down on the coffee table, and Crysta returns seconds later. She looks exhausted as she slides open the door.

“Party’s over.” She leans against the frame of the sliding glass door with a sigh. “Someone fell on my coffee table and broke it… and I just got lectured by the landlord over the phone. Apparently that asshole is my neighbor aaaaand her son.”

“Oops.” Guzma winces.

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” she replies, waving her hand dismissively. “Did you put your number in here?” she asks, scooping up her phone.

“Yeah.”

“Good. C’mon, I’ll walk you to the ferry if you want.”

“Nah, I need to stop somewhere first anyway. Kinda wish I’d gotten here earlier. Might’ve actually seen more of ya party.” He shoots her a playful grin and gets to his feet.

“Oh yeah, we didn’t even break out the needle drugs or get the orgy started.”

Guzma’s ears go pink.

“This party was cut down in the prime of its life.” Putting a hand over her heart in a pearl-clutching kind of gesture, she pulls an exaggerated mournful face, but the effect is lost when she laughs. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Oh yanno I’m down for chattin’ anytime.”

He leaves her apartment after their reluctant goodbyes. Humming to himself, he walks from her building with his hands in his pockets, ruminating over the events of tonight. Instead of heading straight for the ferry, he takes a detour towards the nearest convenience store for a pack of smokes. As he’s paying for them, his phone starts buzzing. He fishes it from his pocket to see the notification of a new text message. From an unknown number. Weird. He exits the convenience store and unlocks his phone to check the message.

It’s a picture. While it loads on his crappy phone, he opens the pack of smokes and places one between his lips. He glances back down at his phone. Crysta’s sent him a selfie. She’s laying on her bed, smirking playfully up at him, her slowpoke and meowth laying on either side of her. The picture came with text.

_ <had fun with you tonight. sorry about my neighbor> _

Guzma grins to himself as he creates a new contact file for her, and saves the selfie as her contact icon. Without really thinking, he makes the selfie the wallpaper for his home screen too, and takes a moment to appreciate it. Damn, but she’s fucking pretty. Before responding, he lights the cigarette and takes a long drag.

_ <eh im p used 2 it by now. got a bad rep n all that. big bad guzma yanno> _

_ <that’s bullshit guz you’re a good guy and i’ll fight you> _

_ <lmao right like ur ass could take me> _

The pair of them continue their conversation the entire ferry ride. Guzma sits near the bow of the mostly-empty ferry, chain smoking cigarettes and grinning at her every message. He vents about the customers giving him shit, and she complains about her manager telling her to be “more friendly” to creeps. He tells her about Plumeria’s success in the Elite Four trials, she tells him about her cousin’s illegitimate ‘pokebean’ farm. The conversation continues as he makes the short walk from the docks to his trailer and steps inside.

_ <you got home okay?> _

_ <yep just walked in> _

Guzma toes off his sneakers and his tank top joins the pile of unwashed clothing on the floor. Out of habit, he opens the fridge door only to be greeted by mostly bare shelves. A half-finished gallon of milk, several six packs of cheap beer, and an week-old container of takeout from Rikumaru’s. Someone forgot to go grocery shopping this week. With a sigh, he grabs a six pack of beer, and flops onto his well-used couch. It creaks in protest. Needing some kind of noise to fill the empty space, he absent-mindedly flips on the shitty TV to a random channel.

“Fuck yeah, Samurai Jack. That’s the shit.”

Golisopod trundles into the room, hunched over to fit its massive bulk through such a cramped space. Must’ve been asleep on his bed. It chitters a greeting as it approaches.

“Hey, buddy,” says Guzma, and it replies with another high-pitched chitter. He reaches out a hand towards it, and it pushes its chitin-plated head into his palm. Guzma chuckles and gives it a pat. “Good boy, lay down, aight?” With another chittery noise of agreement, the golisopod curls on on the floor next to the couch. As Guzma cracks open the can of beer and slurps the froth from the top, his phone on his stomach buzzes. Another text from Crysta.

_ <gimme another pic> _

_ <what why> _

_ <cause i want one> _

Guzma takes a huge sip of his beer, contemplating her request. Should he be straightforward and just obey her, or should he be a shit and take a picture of something random? After all, she didn’t specify what she wanted a picture _of_ , technically speaking. Grinning, he snaps a photo of his socked foot peeking out from beneath the hem of his jeans.

_ <guzma you fucking asshole> _

_ <lmao> _

_ <you know what i want now give it> _

He sends her a picture of his golisopod curled up on the floor.

_ <i’m gonna kick your ass guzma> _

He laughs. Better give in to her demands for real this time, or she’ll get mad. It takes him way too long to figure out a decent way to frame it. Golisopod lifts its head to shoot him a distasteful stare after a solid five minutes of flopping around indecisively on the couch. Eventually he settles on your stereotypical fuckboy pose: mostly his mouth, jaw, neck, and collar bones, with the tiniest glimpse of the black and white heracross tattooed across his upper chest.

_ <fuck dude> _

_ <what> _

_ <...nothin… lemme see that ink better> _

He obliges. This one includes a nice shot of his pierced nipples as well as a full view of the tattoo. A large heracross viewed from above, its wings extended as if in mid-flight. The heracross is shaded in gray tones and centered across his sternum.

_ <damn that’s really nice> _

_ <u just wanted 2 look @ my nipples> _

_ <so what if i did> _

_ <pervert> _

_ <bite me bug boy> _

_ <dont go givin me ideas princess> _

Guzma grins impishly to himself, and finishes off the final beer in the six pack. He rolls off the couch to get another, and trips over golisopod still curled up on the floor. With a startled squawk, he pitches forward and falls flat on his face, and his phone goes flying from his grip. Groaning in pain, he rolls to his side and massages his sore ribs.

“Ow.”

Golisopod chitters admonishingly at him.

“Oh, fuck off ya fuckin’ baby.”

With a grunt of effort, he hoists himself onto his feet, and rubs his sore parts to soothe the pain. Muttering under his breath, he looks around… and his phone is conspicuously absent. Where the hell did he throw it? Swearing up a storm, Guzma frantically turns the trailer upside down trying to find it. Somehow, when he fell, it had slid underneath the fridge, and he has to use tongs to retrieve it. In the twenty minutes it takes him to find it, he’s missed three texts from her.

_ <ooh somebody’s been drinkin> _  
_ <guz?> _ _  
<okay i’ll assume you just passed out and you’re not dead or something. text me tomorrow k? night>_

“Ah, fuuuuuuuuck.” With a growl of frustration, he stumbles down the hallway and into his bedroom, tripping over his feet in his tipsy haze. Overdramatic as always, he flops unceremoniously onto his bed, and plugs his phone into the charger. “Guzma, ya fuck up. She was _so_ fuckin’ into you…” Another low, irritated growl rips from his throat and he rolls over onto his back, arms pillowed behind his head.

_Too_ fucking into him. Paranoia creeps into his head now, and no matter how hard he tries to dismiss it, he can’t shake the doubt that this is all a set up somehow. What if she’s sharing all the pics he’s sending with her friends and laughing at him? She wouldn’t do that… would she? Emotions now in turmoil, he flops around ineffectually for another two hours, before sleep eventually claims him.

The next morning, he wakes to his work alarm blaring in his ear and a throbbing pain in his head. Groaning in agony, he tries to sit up, but his massive golisopod is laying across his legs and stomach, effectively pinning him to the mattress. His feet are numb. Growling, Guzma pushes at its carapace in annoyance.

“Get the fuck offa me!”

A dejected chitter escapes the creature, and it scuttles off his lap and onto the floor. Guilt immediately gnaws at his insides.

“Gah, _sorry_ … sorry, buddy. Hangover’s a real bitch...” He pats it apologetically on the head as he snatches up his phone and turns off the alarm. Even without the extra noise, his head feels like it’s going to cave in. For a moment, he sways dangerously on his feet, pinching the bridge of his nose and hissing in pain. Oh, today is going to _suck._ Despite the feeling of being repeatedly stabbed in the temple by several thousand tiny, tiny knives, he starts rushing around to get ready for work. No time to shower? No problem, just some extra spurts of the old body spray. He nearly skips brushing his teeth but decides against it. Last time he pulled that, he received no less than six complaints about his breath.

As he’s furiously brushing, he checks his phone. No more messages from Crysta. Shit, he really fucked that one up. With his free hand, he taps out a message.

_ <sorry about last night i fell asleep> _

It’s a lame ass excuse but it’s the only one he has. How’s he supposed to tell her that he tripped over his pokemon and his phone fell under the fridge? Embarrassing. As he finishes up his lackluster personal hygiene routine, he takes a moment to stare at himself in the cracked bathroom mirror. His hand moves across his jaw, taking in the three-day old stubble he can’t be bothered to shave. He takes in the bloodshot eyes rimmed with dark circles, the unkempt hair, the snaggleteeth.

What a mess.

Heaving a sigh, Guzma snatches up his wallet and keys and cell phone from their various resting places around the trailer. When he tries to find his signature hoodie, however, it’s nowhere to be found. Perplexed, he stands in his living room, hands on his hips, surveying his surroundings. Where the fuck did he put that thing? And then realization dawns on him.

He wore it to the party. The last time he saw it, it was wrapped around her slowpoke.

A low, frustrated growl of a sigh escapes him. Today is just _not_ his day. He fishes the phone out of his pocket. Still no reply from Crysta. Hating himself, he types up another message.

_ <hey uh did i leave my hoodie there?> _

He waits, and there’s no response. Okay, okay, don’t panic. She’s probably still asleep. She doesn’t need to go into work until later, that much he knows. Maybe she’s just sleeping in. Without any more time to waste, he has no choice but to leave without it. Locking the door behind him, he hurries from the trailer and towards the street. The Pokecenter is only a ten minutes’ walk from his house, and he’s actually on time for once. Halfway through his walk, his phone buzzes in his hand and he glances down at it. Crysta’s finally responded and the tone is less than thrilled.

_ <i’m sorry do i know you?> _

_ <look i didnt mean 2 leave u on read ok i fell asleep> _

_ <...guess i can’t stay mad at you can i> _

_ <nope u cant its illegal> _

_ <yeah your hoodie is here… you sure you want it back?> _

The fuck kinda question is that? Is he _sure_ he wants it back? To humor her, he takes a second to think about it. Yeah, yeah he wants it back.

_ <...yes?> _

_ <aw you’re no fun… i’ll think about it> _

Wait, what?

_ <crysta… for reals?> _

_ <what i said i’d think about it> _

With another growl of frustration, Guzma shoves his phone back into his pocket and picks up the pace. When he arrives at the Pokecenter, it’s devoid of people. The nurse behind the counter barely even looks up when he enters. Seconds after he crosses the threshold, his manager appears from the back room and begins issuing orders. As if Guzma hasn’t worked here for six months already. Without a word, he dons his work apron and begins his opening duties.

The hours drag by. Luckily, most people who come are seeking the services of the nurses, and he can spend his time doing nothing. He manages to sneak glances at his phone once or twice, but Crysta still doesn’t respond. With every passing minute, he becomes more and more frustrated. It takes all his willpower to not lash out at customers in his annoyance. Eventually, he’s given leave to take his lunch, and escapes to the sanctity of the break room with gusto.

He sits, mindlessly picking at a sandwich bought from a vending machine and surfing the internet on his phone, when it unexpectedly buzzes in his hands. He jumps a little in shock, and opens the notification. One new message from Crysta.

_ <are you sure i can’t keep it, guz? it’s so comfy> _

Wait, comfy?

_ <yeah i kinda need it back its my only jacket r u wearin it or somethin> _

Several seconds go by and there’s no reply from her. Anxiety bubbles behind his ribs and he casts a furtive glance around the empty break room, somehow expecting to see someone staring at him. The seconds stretch on into minutes and still no answer. Wetting his lips, he tries again.

_ <crysta?> _

No response.

He throws his head back with a sigh and sits slumped in the chair for several minutes. With another sigh of annoyance, Guzma pockets his cell phone and dumps his mostly uneaten lunch in the trash. And what luck, his break is over. His manager calls from the front for help with a few customers that have just entered. As he’s hurriedly preparing their orders, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket, and a shock of electric adrenaline sparks through his veins. Desperate to see what it is she’s said, his fingers trip up and he spills half the order he’s working on down the front of his apron. For a moment he stares at the wet spot blossoming down his stomach and lap, deadpan, before beginning a new one. His manager only shakes his head.

These few customers lead to a sudden rush and before he knows it, fifteen minutes have passed in the blink of an eye. He still hasn’t had a chance to check her response. Eventually, the customers are all satisfied and he manages to steal a few seconds to himself. In the back, he sits on a stool, hunched over his phone. The only other message from her is a picture. Maybe she put it on her slowpoke as a gag? Guzma casts glances over his shoulder to see if anyone’s paid him any attention, but the cafe is all but empty. What few customers that linger about are content for now.

Brow furrowed and knee bouncing anxiously, he waits for the photo to load, and nearly _drops_ his phone in shock when it finally does.

Wearing his jacket and not much else, the photo shows Crysta, perched on a fluffy pastel comforter, haloed in the golden afternoon light that streams through her bedroom window behind her. The expression on her face is nothing short of _indecent_ as she regards him with sultry, half-lidded eyes, and her blonde hair, still ruffled from sleep, frames her round face.

Guzma’s lungs have stopped working. Mouth agape, he stares at the image for a long time, drinking in the details like a sponge in a puddle. Fuck, is she _trying_ to kill him? She looks nothing short of _stunning_ in her frilly matching lingerie and with his jacket is slipping off her shoulder, revealing freckled skin beneath. Her eyes entrance and bewilder him, and the subtle part to her lips has desperation seeping into his chest like hot steam. His face feels very warm.

He swallows hard and casts a surreptitious glance around to see if anyone is looking his way. Again, no one is paying him mind.

He cards his hand through his hair and scratches at his undercut. What the fuck can he say to this? Should he admonish her for trying to get him in trouble at work? Should he just tell her to keep the hoodie? Should he save the picture for… later? Let’s start with replying to the message.

_ <holy shit…> _

Yeah, that’s eloquent. His cheeks go pink and he mutters under his breath, frustrated that he’s unable to articulate himself better. When she starts typing, he sits up a little straighter, intensely focused on his screen.

_ <if you want it, come and get it> _

He stares at the message. Is she still talking about the jacket…?

_ <ok… when?> _

_ <now> _

Now?? As if reading his mind, she starts typing again.

_ <now or never, guzie _ ❤️ _> _

That little heart clings to the tail end of her message, tantalizing and bewildering and downright _infuriating_. Fuck, what right does she have to be _so hot_ ? His eyes flick to the clock on the wall. By the most liberal of estimates, he still has two and a half hours left in his workday and that’s _if_ no one else decides to come in for a late afternoon snack. Is he really gonna risk unemployment for this? He’s on thin ice with his manager as it is and he doubts even Hala’s word will do much if he just bails.

With anxiety gnawing at his insides, Guzma hops off the stool and stands there, paralyzed with indecision. The image of her, a silent siren call from his phone, is still prominently displayed on the screen. He’s never been so envious of his own hoodie before, and fuck does he wish he didn’t have to work. Slowly, he pockets ithe phone and glances at the counter. Empty. His manager is nowhere to be seen, either. Looks like he has a decision to make.

One hour-long ferry ride and a twenty minute walk later, and he’s somehow found himself standing across the street from her apartment building again, debating.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Guzma casts a nervous glance to his left and then to his right. The street is completely empty. Why can’t he seem to make his feet move? With legs of jelly, he approaches the building and slips inside the rotating door. The journey to her door is a familiar one -- after all, he’d been there less than 12 hours ago for her party. His mind wanders, wracked with anxiety -- what awaits him inside? The climb to the second floor is agonizing as he thinks and rethinks and overthinks. Before he’s even reached the landing, he’s worked himself into mental knots.

At last, he arrives outside her door, and he can’t seem to make himself knock. He stares at the numbers stenciled below the peephole, and draws a shaky breath.

Now or never, Guzma.

Fingers curling into a fist, he raps smartly on the door. The seconds tick by, and just as he’s considering turning tail and running, it opens. Crysta’s face appears in the small gap, cheek leaning against the edge of the door, and eyes searching for whoever knocked. A small smile slowly curves her lip as their gazes meet, and the door swings open fully.

Guzma sucks in a breath. She’s still only dressed in his jacket and her lingerie, and it’s becoming more difficult to keep his eyes trained on her face with each passing second. Despite the force of the scowl he’s giving her, his cheeks still go pink when she leans almost nonchalantly against the door.

“Took you long enough. I was startin’ to think you weren’t comin’.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, well. I’m prolly very _fired_ at this point. Now y’gotta... give…” His voice peters out as she pushes away from the door and regards him with hands on her hips. Her expression is innocent and earnest, but he knows it’s a ruse.

“Meowth got your tongue?” she asks in that damnable tone, batting those damnable lashes, and smiling with her damnable lips. Damn.

“Ya ass is real fuckin’ cute with this shit,” replies Guzma sarcastically, momentarily breaking the spell she’s seemingly laid on him. “Now gimme my jacket, girlie.” He extends his empty hand expectantly, and she glances down at it with a bemused expression. Then her eyes flick up to his face again and her smile makes him feel weak in the knees.

“I already told you, Guz. If you want it, come and get it.”

She’s leaning in closer now, and he finds himself inexplicably drawn in, leaning down until their faces are mere inches apart. Fuck, she smells so good. Like honeysuckle and vanilla. Guzma’s brow furrows, and he wets his lips before speaking.

“Why ya doin’ this to me?” he whispers in a rough, tortured voice.

“Oh, that’s easy, baby.” She chuckles, and her fingers curl in the neck of his work apron, drawing him ever closer to those lips of hers. Her voice comes out a whisper. “‘Cause I like fuckin’ with you.”

It’s unclear who makes the first move, really. It all happens so quickly, it’s impossible to tell. All that matters is that his lips are on hers, her hands are in his hair, and his arms are tightening around her waist. She giggles against his questing mouth, and this does nothing to quench the fire building inside him. No, he groans quietly in response, and nips at her bottom lip.

That, apparently, is the only further encouragement she needs. Pulling him by his hair and the neck of his apron, she guides him forward into her apartment. With the overeagerness of a young stoutland, he follows, kicking her door shut behind him. With a little maneuvering, the pair make their way to the bedroom. Guzma’s hands are everywhere, exploring each of those delicious curves that have teased him since she sent that picture. From her lips he pulls sighs and moans and giggles, and he quickly becomes desperate for more.

When they reach the bed, there’s no hesitation. They fall upon the mattress in a tangled jumble of limbs, hands grasping impatiently at clothing, skin, hair, anything within reach. She falls beneath him, hair fanning out behind her head, and his jacket falls open to reveal more of her to his ravenous gaze.

“Fuck, girl,” he says, hovering over her on hands and knees, taking a moment to look her over. “Coulda just told me you was DTF…”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Their lips meet again, less hurried, slow. He savors the taste of her honey chapstick, the way she moans against his mouth, the scent of her soft skin. Her hands card through his hair, fingers curling at the base of his skull. His lips meander, trailing soft against her jaw and onto her neck. When his sharp canines drag slow and delicious across the column of her throat, she hisses appreciatively. He pushes away the fabric of his hoodie to grant further access to her skin, mentally promising himself to count all those fucking freckles one day. He shifts back, pressing reverent kisses to her stomach, when she tenses.

“W-Wait…”

Immediately he halts his progression, hovering near her hips. Brow knit in confusion, he looks up at her.

“...Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“No, no. I’ve just. Never… Yanno.”

Guzma’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. “You’re a--?”

A nervous bark of laughter escapes her. “ _Fuck_ no,” she replies with a snort. “Just… never had someone… _down there_.” She props herself up on her elbows to look at him, apprehension in her eyes.

“Oh.” Guzma studies her face for a moment, uncertain of how to proceed. “D’ya... want me to stop?”

“...No.”

Softly, he presses more kisses to her stomach, hoping to ease her nerves. Lower lip caught between her teeth, she watches, her fingers anxiously plucking at the comforter. He can feel her pulse spike as he draws his hand alongside her inner thighs. He’s never been the best at romantic shit, but he tries his best, murmuring soothing words between kisses. When she gives him a silent nod of a say-so, his fingers hook in the waistband of her panties. A low, anxious whine escapes her.

“I got ya, it’s okay… Fuck, ya ass is so gorgeous…”

“I already know you like my ass, Guzma. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?” A nervous titter escapes her, and she lets herself fall backward. Guzma watches her cover her face with her arm.

“I like lotsa stuff about ya, baby,” he replies quietly, and he draws her frilly undies down her legs and tosses them aside. “Mmm… let’s start with this, though.” His lips trail sweetly up from her knee towards that apex between her legs, and he watches her breathing quicken with anticipation and anxiety. With a gentle but firm touch, he parts her thighs. He starts slow, just a light, broad swipe of his tongue, and watches her twitch from the contact. With a soft sigh, he leans in again, tasting her deep this time. When she moans aloud and her hands card through his hair, he takes that a sign to continue.

With eyes focused on her, drinking in her reactions, Guzma groans and growls and chuckles against her skin, sending delicious vibrations coursing through her body. He continues on, savoring the salt and slick of her, until his cock _aches_. With his mouth still eagerly working, he sneaks a hand down to ease his stiff member free from the offending jeans and boxers. A quiet groan of satisfaction escapes him, and he takes a moment to spit in his palm. His fist offers little relief, but it’s enough.

He resumes his onslaught, delighting in the way her thighs tense around his head when his tongue moves with purpose across her folds. He pulls away with a wet pop, licking his lips, and she looks down at him.

“Oh, sorry… Am I smothering you?” Her cheeks turn a bright red.

“Nah, nah, baby. I’m a big boy, I can take it. I kinda like wearin’ ya thighs like ear muffs.” He shoots her a mischievous grin, hooks one of her knees over his shoulder, and resumes his very important work. With one hand still working on his cock, Guzma slips a free finger and then its twin into her slick entrance, delighting in the way she gasps and arches. He pumps them in and out, in and out, gradually gaining speed.

“Fuck yeah, lemme hear you.” His pace increases until she wordlessly cries out, his tongue and fingers working her into a frenzy. She pleads, begs, murmurs praises to his talented tongue as he draws her closer and closer to that invisible edge. Her fingers curl into fists in his hair as her orgasm overtakes her, and he has to bring his hand from his cock to hold her hips in place. She squeals as he continues on, flooding her senses with overstimulation. Finally, she pushes his face away and rolls over on her side, panting.

“I know what girls like.” Guzma chuckles under his breath, crawling towards her on all fours. He hovers over her on hands and knees, brushing kisses against her arm and shoulder.

“God, you’re a dick,” replies Crysta, twisting a little to look at him. There’s a little smile on her lips, and a laugh bubbles from her like a fresh spring.

The flush on her cheeks has her freckles standing out against her in stark contrast to her skin, and Guzma could spend forever counting them. He leans down to capture her lips in a kiss, sighing low and deep against her mouth as she yanks impatiently on the tuck of his work shirt. With a frustrated noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh, she breaks the kiss to glare down at his shirt half-untucked from his unbuttoned jeans.

“Why am I the only one mostly naked here?”

“‘Cause ya ass is clearly the best lookin’ one?”

“Shut up and take off your shirt,” demands Crysta, pulling again at the fabric.

Chuckling, Guzma sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt up and over his head. He gets tangled, just for a moment, but long enough to hear her giggle. When he works himself free, he’s bright red, which only results in _more_ giggling. He eagerly returns to her, silencing those giggles and transforming them into appreciative sighs. As he grinds his hardness against her, he commits every detail of her to his memory. The way she gasps and moans, the way her half-lidded eyes burn him to his core, the feel of her lips against his.

Her hands skitter down his stomach to the head of his exposed cock, and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“F-fuck.” He sucks in a hiss of breath through gritted teeth, and a little appreciative laugh escapes her. Without another word, she rolls him to the side, effectively switching their positions and pinning him beneath her. The gleam in her eye turns predatory, and Guzma swallows hard. His hands rest automatically -- idly, even -- on her bare thighs, but his pulse spikes when she speaks.

“My turn…” she says in a singsong voice, and bites her bottom lip.

“W-What d’ya mean?”

Her smile becomes downright wolfish, and she leans down to steal more kisses from his lips. She intoxicates him, dizzying like trying to stand really fast after downing a six pack. All he can do is cling to her waist and hips, eyes closed tight. Her mouth, her wondrous, _amazing_ mouth, moves to his neck then his collarbone, leaving oval blossoms of pink in its wake. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize where exactly she’s going with this.

Her fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans and tug them down to his knees, and then that _mouth_ of hers is there, her tongue washing hot and wet across the underside of his cock. He groans, head thrown back, as she tortures him with that talented tongue. She takes the head of his cock into her mouth, and he very nearly sees stars. No one person should ever be this good at sucking dick, it’s just not _fair._ Her head bobs up and down along his cock, and the silence is punctuated by the slight, obscene slurping. Cheeks hollowing, she slowly pulls back, her tongue pressing firm to the underside. With a little pop, she pulls off, smirking up at him and licking her lips.

“Heh, those noises you’re makin’ are cute as fuck.”

“Shit, girlie… A-Ah, fuck!”

Her fingernails trace featherlight down the underside of his shaft, and he jerks at the alien sensation. Automatically, his hands latch onto her hair, more to steady himself than her. She hums her approval, and resumes her work. Panting hard, he chances a glimpse down at her, and groans through clenched teeth to see her staring up at him through her lashes. He’s never seen a more erotic image in his life, and he’s seen some pretty raunchy porn. She continues on, taking him deeper and deeper into her mouth until he’s nearly ready to burst.

“Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ stop! S-Stop… shit.” He manages to push her away just in time, and falls back to the mattress, panting. It almost hurts, the ache in his groin now, and he’s harder than he’s ever been in his entire life. A low laugh escapes her as she straddles him, his cock pressing against her lower stomach.

“Mm, you’re not the only one here with a silver tongue, Guz.” She leans down until their noses are almost touching, and his hands latch onto her hips and squeeze. He’s too far gone to play or tease anymore.

“I’m about to go outta my mind here, baby, _please_. C-Condom?”

With a little laugh, she steals a kiss from his lips. Then another. And another. When he groans with impatience against her mouth, she withdraws with another infuriating laugh. She crawls on all fours to the head of the bed, giving him a magnificent view, even if it is upside down. He rolls onto his hands and knees, stalking her like some great predator. As she digs around in the drawer for the condoms, he draws nearer, eventually overlapping her. With one free hand, he pushes aside the curtain of blonde hair, exposing her neck and shoulders. Sighing, he presses his face in that little valley between her shoulder blades, leaving kisses along her skin until she hums approvingly. He grinds himself against the curve of her ass, desperately seeking that delicious friction again.

“Mm, I really got you riled up, huh?” She turns her head a little to look over her shoulder, and the smug grin on her lips has him gritting his teeth.

“Fuck, you sure as shit did…” His voice comes out a rough, tortured growl, as his hips bump repeatedly against her backside. His cock is leaking already as he grinds it between those round cheeks.

“ _Down,_ boy...”

But Guzma isn’t listening anymore. He’s watching her hands ball into fists in that pastel comforter of hers. His teeth scrape against the sensitive skin of her shoulder and a breathy moan rewards his efforts. She pushes back against him, sighing and giggling, and he grips her hips hard enough to bruise. When she offers the condom over her shoulder, he snatches it from her in a flash, rips open the package, and rolls it over his cock.

Expectantly, she looks over her shoulder and gives her hindquarters an inviting wiggle.

Cock in hand, he slides into her waiting heat and groans aloud at their joining. Fuck, it’s been awhile since he’s done this. As he sets a slow, deliciously torturous pace, she lowers her upper half to the mattress, humming into the comforter. Hungrily, Guzma watches her every movement, and his hips increase in speed. Her moans are all but swallowed by the pillowy comforter, but they send jolts of pleasure arcing through him regardless.

“Fuck, I ain’t gonna last long.”

“You and me both, baby.”

He pulls back a hand and slaps her ass with the flat of his palm. She squeals in delight and surprise, twisting a little to look at him over her shoulder. When she bites her lower lip in an unmistakable sign of arousal, Guzma’s smirk grows wider. So he does it again, and again, _and again_ , until there’s a distinct hand print standing out stark and pink on her skin. All the while he pounds into her cunt, feeling the precipice hurtling towards them both fast, almost too fast. He continues, his pace gradually losing its rhythm as he nears completion, and when he comes, it is with a growl that _might’ve_ started as her name. Her own orgasm chases the heels of his own, accompanied by a whine and a twitch of her leg.

With a low, long sigh shared between them, Guzma and Crysta fall flat in a heap upon the comforter. He lays upon her, chest against her back, nose buried in her hair. A low chuckle escapes her when he presses kisses to the nape of her neck. She seems content to lay beneath him, pressed to the mattress by his weight. Mere moments pass before the euphoria passes and doubt begins to creep into his mind.

Fuck, was this a mistake?

Guzma clears his throat, awkward and uncertain. “...Should I go?”

Crysta turns underneath him, a frown knitting her brow. There’s confusion and a slight hurt to her eyes. “No? Noooo... don’t go… stay.” She rolls further until they’re facing each other, and slips her arms around his neck. “We’ll watch Game Grumps and order in some Rikumaru’s… And cuddle while we wait for it.” A sleepy little smile curves her lip, and Guzma breathes out a slight chuckle.

Guzma swallows hard, searching her eyes. Past experience tells him that once he’s… finished, his welcome wears out surprisingly quick. He really _should_ go, especially if he wants any chance of another rendezvous like this with her. But it’s so inviting, the prospect of staying here with her, just wasting their afternoon together. To help decide, he dips his head and captures her lips in a soft kiss. She responds eagerly, her hands carding through his hair, fingernails raising goosebumps along his scalp..

When he pulls away, just enough to look at her, her eyes are slow to open. She smiles with her sleepy eyes half-lidded and his heart skips a precious beat. Fuck, she’s got under his skin in record time.

“Sooo… is that a yes?” Tenderly, she pushes his hair back from his face, regarding him with hopeful eyes.

“...Yeah, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Good.”

And it is.


End file.
